


fire and fleet and candle-lighte

by OfShoesAndShips



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: The Darkness comes, and Gilbert Norrell has regrets.





	

 

i. _this ae nighte, this ae nighte_

 

 

At first there is darkness.

 

Norrell has lived through longer, deeper darknesses than this; the closing in of a northern winter, the crack and wail of autumn storms. Not every winter he had was one thick with servants and so he drags himself together, searches out the candles and lights them, scratches his hands building up the fire. It hurts and he grumbles to himself but he only winces outwardly; there is little point in complaining when Strange has not moved from the window in hours.

He sits on the sopha in front of the fire; it crackles unevenly, weakly, but it is light and warmth and worth the effort, all told. He glances at the books still scattered all over the floor and the refrain of that old funeral song comes into his head, but he banishes it as best he can and picks up the nearest. He can’t, at this moment, move too well; he’s exhausted from the whole affair, and only managed the candles and fire through habit formed in youth, habit he had thought he’d lost after Childermass arrived.

Of course, now he has no Childermass.

“Do you think we’re dead, Gilbert?” Strange sounds, well, strange; his voice is light, but it isn’t the same lightness Norrell remembers.

Norrell, who can still feel his heartbeat rushing from the exertion building of the fire, says no.

“But this darkness-”

“Is merely magical.”

Strange does not reply, but moves away from the window and starts picking up the books around him. He doesn’t mention the candles or the fire, which rather grates. Strange stacks those few books from around his feet up on the overturned desk beside him – Childermass’s upturned desk – and then clears a path to the sopha, clearing the books every which way as he goes.

He sits down beside Norrell with a deep sigh.

“I saw the Raven King,” he says.

Norrell looks at him. “You will remember that I did likewise.”

Strange waves his hand dismissively. Norrell does not think he realises he has done so. “Yes,” he says, “But I have been looking so long for some glimpse of him! Some glimpse of his magic!”

Norrell bites his tongue, and slips out of the library while Strange stares into the fire and mumbles to himself.

 

 

ii. _when thou from hence away art past_

 

Norrell stumbles weakly through the labyrinth, pulling his coat tight around him. The darkness has chilled the house, blocking out any hope of sunlight, and even here in the labyrinth, where sunlight had never been known, it was colder than he had ever known it. He is going nowhere in particular but he turns off the labyrinth early, absent-mindedly following a slim, cramped corridor away into the depths of the house. At the end is a door, and Norrell tries the handle, expecting it to be locked. It opens under his light touch and he slips inside.

It’s been a long time since he was here, he realises. When he was last here the whitewash was new; now it’s grayish and cracked. He puts the candlestick down on the dresser, squeezed in by the ewer and bowl, and sits down on the bed. He trails his fingers over the bedspread, rubbing it between his fingers. He remembers what a tight squeeze it was, sleeping here beside John when they were both younger, open, soft. A storm had raged then, too, wind screaming and rain beating at the high window. Norrell bends, carefully because fetching firewood has done summat at his back, and unties his shoes. He pulls his feet up and lays down, right on the edge of the bed. His jacket shifts, pocket heavy, and Norrell frowns. He pulls from the pocket John’s cards, gazing at them. He doesn’t remember picking them up.

He shifts back a little way, so that he has a space in front of him. He begins, slowly, trance-like, to shuffle the cards.

“Show him me,” he asks, low voiced, weak, younger than his years. Then, the last time, he had rested his chin on John’s side and watched him read them. He had lain here, so quietly in love, as John taught him every meaning the cards could hold. Now, he lays out three on the bed and asks them to speak.

 _The Tower_ , he turns over first, hearing in his memory John’s weak French.

 _Death_ comes next, and he freezes, clenching his hands. But John comes to him then, smiling in his crooked way, and he relaxes enough to turn over the final card.

 _Eight of Cups_ stares up at him and he trails his finger over John’s drawing, the steady ink lines and subtle hint of chalk.

He collects the cards together and slips them back into the deck. He lays the cards on the small bedside table, folds his arm beneath his head, and closes his eyes.

 

 

iii. _and King receive thy saule_

 

 

Norrell wakes up a while later, the candle burned half way down, and stretches. He stands up, disregarding his shoes, and pads back to the library.

“Mr Strange,” he says, leaning in the doorway to rest his tired legs.

Strange, who had thrown his legs over the arm of the sofa and was inexpertly poking the fire, looked up. “Ah! Norrell! I have been thinking, my man, of ways we could perhaps encourage Uskglass to visit us again. Obviously we have his attention, so it should be the work of a moment to create another spell to attract him-”

“Mr Strange.”

Strange frowned. “I would have thought this would please you.”

“You are in the North now, Mr Strange.”

“You are stating the obvious, Norrell. Sit down and be sensible. The cold has turned your head.”

“I’m not so nesh as that,” Norrell says, but under his breath. He comes, though, and sits down beside Strange. Strange lets out a long breath, leaning against Norrell’s side.

“Now. Clearly another summoning spell would be gauche, but I have been thinking and I believe we could – well, the magical equivalent of a letter, if you see what I mean. Ask him if he would visit us again,” he says, tipping back further until he is almost laid across Norrell’s thighs.

“He is a king, Mr Strange.”

Strange frowned. “Well, of course.”

“You cannot just ask a King to call on you.”

“I don’t see why not. We are, after all, magicians. From us-”

“It would be insolent.”

Strange sat up again, and in a corner of his mind Norrell missed his warmth. “Insolent? Surely not, Norrell. We are powerful magicians. He-”

“He is the king,” Norrell says, “Would you send a letter to King George and expect him to stay for tea?”

“Really, Norrell, you sound like one of those, what are they. Johannites. You’ll be flying his pennant from the roof, next. We are magicians, not subjects.”

Norrell stands up suddenly, folding his arms across his chest. “He is the King, Jonathan!”

Strange splutters. “And we are hardly common subjects! Magicians of which the country has not seen the like for centuries!”

“Which country? Yours, or mine?”

“Norrell, really-”

“He is my king, Jonathan. I will not be part of your insolence.” Norrell turns away and, ignoring his protesting knees, begins to pick up the rest of the books from the floor. He has collected and replaced at least twenty when Strange speaks again.

“You told me, before,” he says, “That you had given up on him.”

“Yes.”

“And yet now-”

“I was young and foolish,” Norrell whispers, “But I am a Yorkshireman. I only ever had the one king.”


End file.
